


After Darkness, Light

by Skaldic



Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Anita Blake
Genre: BAMF Dawn Summers, Be Careful What You Wish For, Character Death, Crossover, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fix-it fic, M/M, Magical Bond, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaldic/pseuds/Skaldic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A grieving wish alters the very foundations of the Anitaverse. Or: The Church killed Julianna for a reason and it wasn't witchcraft.</p><div class="center">
  <p>Answer to amusewithaview's "Old soul for the Key..." challenge.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
_Banner by me, Skaldic. Todd Mane as Asher and Michelle Trachtenberg as Dawn._  


**PROLOGUE**

It was a burning sort of jealousy, crippling if he let it be, but Asher regarded envy's strangling embrace with an odd sense of nostalgic weariness, an aching sort of recognition. _I know you_ , the pain whispered. Like the punishing tightness of his scars, he had lived with rejection and scorn for so long, that to hold them close once again seemed the natural order of things. Since Julianna's murder, jealousy had been his most intimate bedfellow, his hatred and resentment warming his nights when no one else would. It was frighteningly easy to twist love into sustainable hatred and even easier to turn lonely discontent into a bright, burning flame of righteous anger.

Jean-Claude's _petite_ was not the only one who drew comfort from her rage, who wrapped it about her like armor and wielded it as one might a shield and sword. No, contrary to what she might think, wrath was not Anita's sin alone. She did well for a human, but none could match a vampire when it came to suffering, either dealing it or enduring it. Humans thought in minutes, hours, days. Months, if they were exceptionally patient. Vampires thought in years, decades, centuries, millennia.

In her cultivated belligerence, she hurt all who would foist what she saw as unreasonable expectations upon her. She hurt all who would dare to make her feel uncomfortable, or give her the unvarnished truth she so often demanded but never really wished to hear. She hurt and she could be hurt, but it was a transient sort of pain, a childish, foot-stomping sort of pain. There one moment, gone the next. One argument traded for another or simply pushed aside, unresolved, forgotten until someone backed her into an emotional corner and she needed it again.

It made Asher feel old.

She claimed to love him, but unless he purposely drew her attention, stirred her ire, she relegated him to the bottom of an ever-growing list of romantic entanglements, little more than a piece of furniture, or an outfit she only wore when nothing else was clean. It was infuriating. If he had wished to be overlooked and ignored, he would have followed the Traveler and the Master of Beasts back to France.

When he had accepted Jean-Claude's invitation to remain in St Louis as his _témoin_ , Asher had thought to reclaim what they and Julianna had shared so long ago. It had been a faulty, intuitive leap that if Anita loved them both, then she would truly love them both and it would be a happy, healing thing, as it had been with Julianna. He now had to wonder how much of Anita's initial warm regard was colored by Jean-Claude's memories and necessity.

Love -- true, lasting love -- was borne out of more than the _ardeur_ and an unflinching stubbornness to make much of, what was in reality, simple kindness; and that was what it had been, he knew now, simple kindness. Human decency, if the phrase could be applied to vampires. Anita had treated him well when all others looked on him with horror or morbid fascination. Asher would always love her for that, but there were many forms of love, and unlike most who found their way into her bed, he would not settle for subsisting on scraps from her table.

He had known from the onset that he would never possess as much of her heart as Jean-Claude or even her tragic, conflicted Ulfric, and he had been content with that. A little love was better than none at all. Asher had not realized what he was consigning himself to, how painful it would be to remember being the centerpiece of someone's life while barely rating a kiss _hello_ in the hierarchy of Anita's affections.

More and more, Anita reminded Asher of Belle Morte. Not in power or sheer callousness, but in that unspoken, expectant knowledge that the men around her would simply wait for her to turn her attention to them. Even Jean-Claude, her master, waited for her to acknowledge him whenever she entered a room, gauging her mood before he acted. It left a bitter taste in Asher's mouth.

The bond between a master and his human servant was, at its best, a partnership, a marriage. At worst, slavery. But regardless of the gamut it ran, it was sacred, holy in a way. That Anita treated it so irreverently, so casually, only recognizing the connection when it suited her purposes... It made the emptiness where Julianna had once resided in Asher's mind, comforting and breathtaking in her gentleness, echo dully with pain that would never quite fade.

A hand, familiar and welcome, touched his face, and Asher allowed his eyes to flutter open. Jean-Claude was crouched at his feet in front of his chair, staring up at him with lovely, purposive stillness. Only the tiny line between his brows told of a frown that had died stillborn.

"What are you thinking about so strongly, my goldfinch?" Jean-Claude asked, the freshly fed warmth of his fingers sliding back into his hair. As always, the soft murmur of French made the gesture feel like more than it was, like it _could_ be more than it was.

Asher sighed and leaned into Jean-Claude's touch anyway. This was all they allowed themselves, small touches, barely there intimacies. He, too hurt over the past to go any further without some kind of guarantee, and Jean-Claude too wary of Anita's probable reaction should she find him with another. No matter that Jean-Claude had been Asher's centuries before she was ever born, he was hers now, and she did not share her men, not even with her other men.

"Love," Asher answered quietly, honestly.

The faintest of flinches, a very slight widening of his eyes, that was Jean-Claude's only reaction. "Ah." He pulled his hand away and let it settle against the curve of Asher's knee. "Have you finally decided to leave us, then?" he asked. Such careful emptiness. Anita had made him so very careful.

Asher let his sorrow fill his face, let his eyes fill with the blood-tinged shine of unshed tears. It was a purely human expression of grief, but Jean-Claude deserved the effort; he always had. "No, my raven, no," Asher said, cradling his face. "Never doubt my loyalty to you, or how I feel."

Jean-Claude shuddered, the hand on Asher's knee tightening to the point of pain. "I can taste your unhappiness," he said, "your heartbreak. Has Anita done something?"

Asher laughed, and it was a startled, bitter sound. "No more than she ever does," he said. He smoothed away the beginnings of a displeased expression on Jean-Claude's face. "I grow weary of this. She will not love me as I desire, cannot, I think, and I refuse to sit and wait for the day that she grows comfortable enough with her appetites to allow you to love me in her place."

The frown bloomed anyway and spread, as thorny and as hard to navigate as a briar patch; it was Anita's expression and it cut Asher to see it twist Jean-Claude's face. "What are you saying, Asher?"

Asher let out a slow, unneeded breath. "I want to be loved again. I want to see devotion shine in someone's eyes and know that I am lovely to them, scars or no." He looked away. "I wish..."

The frown melted into something more understanding, something softer. "What do you wish, my love?" It was a whisper, nonjudgmental and willing to listen even if it was painful to hear.

Asher closed his eyes and the tears finally fell. "I wish we had Julianna with us again."

 

* * *

 

Halfrek stood beside the two vampires, unnoticed, absently wiping her eyes. It wasn't often that someone's sob story moved her, especially when she was simply picking up the slack on somebody else's quota. Exhaling sharply, she stared hard at the blond vampire. He'd made a wish and she had to dispense justice. The thought of hurting him more than he already was, made her feel... vaguely ill.

She blamed it on spending too much time with Anyanka. Her humanity was catching.

Thinking over his wish, Halfrek stretched her power out, turning the possibilities over in her mind. She honestly believed that her job was justice, not vengeance. It was why she championed children so fiercely; they couldn't protect themselves, not from the world and certainly not from their families. Someone had to hold the adults in their lives accountable.

Halfrek tapped her amulet with a nail, her thoughts traveling to a lonely, neglected girl two dimensions left of this one. She had tried to help her, but as all things that involved that particular family, it didn't go exactly as Halfrek had planned. Things had improved, at first, they always did, but, eventually, everyone fell back into old, established patterns and the girl was right back where she started. Ignored. Forgotten. Abandoned.

It made Halfrek want to slaughter them all.

But she couldn't, not without a wish to act on. Halfrek walked around the vampires, peering closely at what little she could see of the blond one's scars through his hair. Holy water scars; this breed of vampire wasn't as lucky as the ones back home.

She wanted to help them both, the girl and the vampire, but someone had to be punished, and demon magic was always two-fold. The wisher had to be punished for making the wish in the first place, wisher's remorse was often good enough to placate D'Hoffryn, and someone, or several someones, had to be the wish's intended target. Someone had to hurt. Demon magic didn't give anything for free.

But if the fallout was good enough, the effects harsh enough, if it was _permanent_...

Halfrek's lips curled in a slow, satisfied smile. Depending on how everything fell into place, this could be the best job she'd ever done. It would certainly top Anyanka's standing record. After all, darling _Anyanka_ had never worked with a pan-dimensional energy matrix.

Feeling a little giddy, Halfrek gave the blond vampire's shoulder a comforting pat, though she knew he wouldn't feel it. "Wish granted," she said, her smile spreading wide. Then, very quietly, in case anyone was listening, "Good luck."

 

* * *

  

**CHAPTER 1**

The priests came for her and she just stood there, trembling, crying, too frightened to move. She didn't know why, but she was disgusted with herself. She should have run. She should have used the candlestick she'd been holding as a weapon, instead of dropping it. Only when they touched her, did she finally begin to fight. She came alive kicking and screaming, the fog of indecisive terror parting before the certainty that these men meant to kill her.

She might have been strong, fast, and weirdly durable, but, God, she did _not_ know how to use it. She bit, she scratched, she _slapped_.

She fought like a _girl_.

That mocking, incredulous assessment of her own capabilities made her breath catch and her eyes widen in sudden, bone-deep mortification. Sweet shillelagh, what was she _doing_? Okay, yeah, she wasn't the best fighter ever, but she was certainly better than _this_.

It was a helpful thought come too late.

Her vision flared white and she went down, red spattering the floor like a warm spring rain. Choking on a ragged moan, she peered up through her bloody, brown ringlets. One of the priests had a fire iron in his hand. The curved point was wet. There was a dark clump of... something clinging to it.

They really _were_ going to kill her. Honest surprise ran through the thought. It made her blink. Usually they just wanted to sacrifice her, or use her as bait.

Another man, their leader, couched down and pushed back the hood of his traveling cloak. It only served to underscore what she already knew; they never let you see their faces if they were going to let you go. The man was human, ordinary, _old_ , and that mocking incredulity surged back.

How could she have let them win so easily?

The angles of the old priest's face were oddly rounded, disjointed, like it had been shattered into a million pieces once and then put back together wrong. His eyes were a pale watery green. As she met them, she expected them to burn with passion, with righteousness and zealotry. Instead, they seemed sad, apologetic. He opened his mouth to speak and she didn't care if he did feel bad, she glared at him. He was about to kill her, how _dare_ he try to justify it? She didn't know how she knew what he was about to say, but she did; with perfect, ringing clarity, she did.

 _Maleficos non patieris vivere._ Exodus 22:18. Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.

Someone came behind her and bound her hands, wrenching her up onto her knees. A fresh wave of pain screamed through her head. Blood ran down her back in a hot, wet rush, soaking her nightgown. And through it all, their leader stared at her, stared and stared, as though he was nerving himself up to do something he knew was wrong. At last, he looked away, crossed himself, and stood.

"The Key is the link," he said softly. "The link must be severed. Such is the will of God."

Dawn Summers could only look at him in stunned, uncomprehending horror as she was dragged out into the street.

 

* * *

 

Asher longed for the days when his only desire was to cause Jean-Claude pain. Then, perhaps, he would be able to look into his eyes now and find solace in the agony he saw there. Instead, Jean-Claude's pain was his pain, and the words of Asher's wish, heartfelt and utterly selfish, hung in the air between them like an ugly truth. They rarely spoke of Julianna outside of Anita's hearing; even after three centuries, the wound they were dealt that night still bled freely. To speak of her, their mutual silence said, was to injure each other needlessly.

Even so, Asher occasionally wondered if he was alone in his grief. A petty, uncharitable thought, he knew, but he felt like being petty and uncharitable; the anguish in Jean-Claude's eyes hurt less than the knowledge that he had moved on and Asher hadn't, couldn't.

Jean-Claude released a shaky breath. "As do I," he said very quietly, French turning to English as he finally broke the silence. He smoothed out the wrinkles he had made in the loose fabric of Asher's trouser leg. "Sometimes, I think on what I have done, on what I have yet to do. I wonder if she would approve."

Asher followed Jean-Claude's cheekbone with a fingertip. "You survived; nothing else matters."

Jean-Claude huffed an unhappy laugh and drew away, rising from his crouch. "As _ma petite_ would say, _mon chardonneret_ , pretty to think so."

"You _survived_ ," Asher repeated, firmer, harsher. "She would forgive you anything but final death."

Jean-Claude was silent a moment, then nodded. " _Oui_ , she was exceptionally forgiving. I had forgotten."

Asher looked -- not away, but _up_ \-- at their painting hung above the mantelpiece, at _her_ painting, and sighed. "I haven't." He stood, moving his chair back to its original position just left of the lounge; he was the only one allowed to upset Jean-Claude's careful, if endearingly monochromatic, decorating. It warmed him that not even their _petite chérie_ could say the same.

"What turned your mind to such sad things?" Jean-Claude asked.

Asher waved a hand, dismissive. "Bitterness, loneliness; what does it matter?" He came to stand beside Jean-Claude, both of them staring up at Julianna's silent, unchanging beauty. "She is never far from my thoughts," he admitted. "I think of her even when I'm not thinking of her."

"And I don't think of her enough," Jean-Claude said, the words slick and edged.

"I did not say that."

" _Non_. _Non_ , you did not, that is true." The tension around Jean-Claude's eyes relaxed. "I apologize."

"Grief makes us all cruel," Asher said. He tipped Jean-Claude a faint, self-depreciating smile. "Some more than others."

It was Jean-Claude's turn to protest, " _I_ did not say that."

Asher snorted. "I know how I am, _mon corbeau_ ," he said. "Even before, I wasn't the easiest to, how do you say?" He flicked his fingers. "Get along with."

Time and tragedy romanticized the past. They made one forget the little annoyances, the irritants and unthinking everyday slights. Asher stared into Julianna's bright blue eyes and allowed himself a slight frown. They made martyrs and saints of the dead.

The thought caught, spun, repeated: bright _blue_ eyes?

Asher took a step toward the fireplace. Julianna's eyes were a warm honeyed brown, a shade lighter than her hair.

Except they weren't.

The eyes captured forever by painter's brush were a clear, clean blue middling somewhere between his light and Jean-Claude's dark. Julianna's eyes had always been blue, but... hadn't he only recently compared Anita to her and her to Belle Morte? All three small, dark haired, and dark eyed.

Only that wasn't right, either.

Julianna had been tall for a woman, two inches shy of looking Jean-Claude square in the face by her nineteenth birthday. Oh, how she had hated it.

" _Mon chardonneret_?" Jean-Claude touched his arm. "Asher, are you well?"

"The painting," he said, gazing up at it. His voice sounded odd, muffled, as though he was listening to himself speak from very far away. " _Mon Dieu_ , Jean, the painting."

A convulsive shudder worked up Asher's spine, stealing his grace, making him stumble as he backed away from Jean-Claude, away from Julianna's inexplicable blue eyes. Pain ripped through his skull and he fell back, tripping over the sharp ebony edge of an end table. His head hit the floor, thudding dully against the thick carpeting.

 _No, not blue_ , Asher thought, dazed. _Brown_. Julianna's eyes were _brown_.

She'd been a delicate woman. Small, but amply curved, possessing the sweet softness that most women of means had once had.

 _Tall_ , the word knifed through his mind, _blue-eyed_. It covered the world in a pulsing red haze.

Her hair had been brown, but it had also been long and straight, no natural curl or wave to speak of. Didn't he _remember_ spending hours styling it into perfect, spiraling ringlets whenever she asked? Didn't he _remember_ how envious she had been of his and Jean-Claude's hair?

Distantly, Asher felt hands move over him in a worried panic. Someone called his name, whispered it through his mind on a chill wave of power, but he pushed both the hands and the call away. A different power demanded his attention. Familiar and alien, it gently fluttered against the roof of his mouth like a butterfly in a bell jar. It sang to him, the melody faint and heartbreaking in its silent uncertainty. It took him only a moment to recognize it.

Only a moment and everything stilled, everything _changed_.

Asher stopped fighting. The power trembled, hesitated at the sudden lack of resistance, and then, seemed to _exhale_. It relaxed, washing through him, warm, welcome, and as deep as the ocean. Asher let the memory of a slightly different, but no less precious, Julianna settle into place. He let the aching void where their bond had been so viciously torn away from him, fill with her presence once again.

To do anything else would be unthinkable.

 

* * *

 

_Julianna?_

_Yes. I-I mean, no. Oh, God, I don't know. Maybe?_

_Where are you?_

_I don't know! Outside. Can you-- Can you find me? It's cold._

_I can do that, yes._

 

* * *

 

 **Vampire to English Dictionary :**  
Corbeau [Fr.]; _cor-boh_ : raven  
Petite chérie [Fr.]; _p'tee sha-ree_ : little darling  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Challenge 2710: An old soul for the Key...](http://www.tthfanfic.org/Challenge-2710)


	2. Chapter 2

God, she could still _smell_ the smoke.

The priests had dragged her into the village square, burned her at the stake, and instead of Heaven, she'd woken up in Homeless Hell, complete with complimentary bench. The thought was a weak, skittering thing, and she knew if she focused on it too hard, she'd start screaming and she wouldn't be able to stop. She had screamed, though. She'd screamed until her throat bled.

Dawn huddled against the park bench, arms and legs tucked inside her happy cupcake pajama top. If it wasn't for the abrupt change in script, the swap of _witch_ for _Key_ , she might have classified the entire nightmarish episode as some kind of freaky past life regression. Her sister was the Slayer. She saw weird, unexplainable stuff all the time. Reincarnation wasn't too much of a stretch. Except reincarnation didn't explain why the idea of fire suddenly made her stomach slide to her ankles and her heart hammer like it was trying to break out of her chest.

If it was reincarnation, wouldn't a fire phobia have shown up sooner? Not to mention the whole _girl-shaped blob of energy_ drama. Could you even _be_ the reincarnation of a 17th Century French noblewoman if you didn't exist two years ago?

She couldn't say. All Dawn knew was that if this wasn't a magic-made snow storm, she was a long, long way from home.

Hunching down, she wondered if anyone had noticed she was missing. Depending on the time, Buffy was either just getting off work to patrol, or just getting _in_ from patrol. Willow had already left for her Spellcasters Anonymous meeting, and Anya was busy playing Wedding Planner while Xander did his best impression of a bobblehead doll. Dawn hadn't seen Tara since Buffy's birthday party.

So, it would probably be a while yet before anyone thought to ask, "Hey, where's Dawn?"

Poking her head up a bit, Dawn glanced around the park in tired resignation. Well, she thought it was a park. It could have easily been a cemetery. The snow was thick enough that if the headstones were those flat modern plaques, then they would be completely hidden.

The sky was black and empty. Gas street lamps jutted from the snow, their dark cast-iron lines cutting the scenery into neat, even slices of illuminated winter. What few trees she saw were large and old. Bare, white-powered branches stretched out from their trunks like gnarled, arthritic fingers.

It might have been strangely pretty if she wasn't a shivering, teeth-chattering wreck.

Dawn knew she would have to move soon, find help before she literally _couldn't_ , but she dreaded trying to slog through the snow. It would just be her luck if she went looking for help and someone wandered past the bench while she was gone. What was it her mom had always said? If she ever got lost, stay put? Of course, she'd also told her to wait for store security, which wasn't exactly applicable at the moment.

So, she had a choice: freeze to death by inches on a park bench, or freeze to death trying _not_ to freeze to death, traipsing around in a blizzard.

Dawn pressed her face against her knees. Did freezing take as long as burning? Did it hurt as much?

She didn't know if any of it was real, or if what she remembered was some sort of Lethe's Bramble gone wrong, but she wasn't liking it. If Willow was behind this, she was going to... tell Buffy and then nothing would be done about it, as usual.

Sometimes, she really missed Giles. Nobody gave a lecture quite like he did.

Releasing a shuddering sigh, Dawn uncurled from her protective huddle. She definitely needed to find help, or at least a reasonably undrafty place to hole up until morning. The groundskeeper's shed, maybe? That is, if this was a cemetery and not a park. She still wasn't sure.

If she could get away from the ice and snow, then she could try to move around enough to keep herself warm. It wasn't the greatest plan ever (the suck factor was a solid ten), but it beat dying of exposure.

Now, if only she could get over the automatic _do not want_ of actually putting her feet anywhere near the ground.

God, it just wasn't fair. She was a SoCal girl. Before this, she'd seen snow a grand total of _once_ , and that had been _magic_ snow in a _fake_ memory. It hadn't even stuck to the ground. What the hell did she know about frostbite and hypothermia?

Bracing herself, Dawn closed her eyes, and, whimpering, hopped off the bench.

The shock of it was like a punch to the gut. Gasping, she squashed the urge to abandon her plan. She couldn't stay here. She _couldn't_. It might have seemed warmer in comparison, but it wasn't. In fact, since the bench was mostly metal, it was probably _colder_. Like cake, the bench was a lie.

Dawn took an unsteady step, and then another.

Forget telling Buffy. If this was Willow's fault, she was going to tell _Tara_.

Crying like a baby held certain appeal. So did screaming until someone found her. Regrettably, all either accomplished was alerting every girl-eating thing in the neighborhood that it was time for dinner, and if living on the Hellmouth taught Dawn anything, it was that you should always wait until the girl-eating things tracked you down on their own before you started Fay Wraying it. It saved time and energy.

Eight steps, nine, ten.

Cold lanced up her legs and blasted her from every side, whipping through her pajamas like they weren't there. Involuntary tears lined her cheeks. Still, she kept going, one foot in front of the other. She wasn't going to die here. Been there, done that, got the industrial-strength psychological trauma. Besides, if she died, Dawn had a feeling that she'd just wake up to _another_ death-or-death situation. She didn't want to think about what would follow.

So, on she went.

Courage was amazingly easy to come by when you didn't have a choice.

She didn't know how long she'd walked, or how far, but the undisturbed snow finally gave way to a lightly dusted cobblestone street. Someone had plowed it recently. She laughed, and if it sounded shrill, hysterical, she didn't care. Her little winter wonderhell had people! Not that she'd really thought it didn't, but waking up in a demonic snow globe wouldn't have been the strangest thing to happen to her.

Her life, welcome to it.

Still laughing, _not_ crying, no matter what it sounded like, Dawn wiped her eyes and sucked in a ragged breath. The relief was so strong it made her knees wobble. She was going to be okay. She was. Streets meant buildings, buildings promised warmth.

Lights twinkled and shone like subdued stars in the distance.

She rubbed her numb hands together. Numb hands, numb feet, numb face. She'd stopped shivering a little while ago. Dawn couldn't remember if that was a good thing or bad, but she ached to sit down and rest, if only for a moment. She was so tired and the lights looked so very far away.

She'd found the street. That was an accomplishment, right? A five minute breather wouldn't hurt anything, would it?

Sighing, Dawn squinted, focusing on the lights again. Wait, were they closer than before? She stretched onto her toes. They _looked_ closer.

What she had originally thought was the dual flash of a convenience store sign was steadily heading her way. Maybe it was headlights? She frowned, unsure. It didn't _move_ like headlights. Where headlights wound in and out, following the road, it was traveling in a fast straight line.

Dawn barely had time to wonder if she should move out of the street before the lights were on her.

No, not lights, _fire_.

It felt like she was tumbling down a dark, shrieking void, the world spinning away into the soul-sucking black. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond a terrified chant of _not again_ , _not again_ , _not again_. She hit at the fire, clawed at it, but it passed through her hands, undaunted. Then, the fire touched her, settled, and _spread_. She screamed. Pale blue flame devoured the darkness, swallowed her screams. It didn't burn.

It _didn't_ burn.

"Julianna?" the fire whispered. Only it wasn't fire now, it was eyes. She _knew_ those eyes.

Pain and terror had stolen away many of the finer details, reducing everything to fragments and raw, sensory still-frames, but she remembered some. She remembered _him_. Not his name, or who he had been to her, but the shine of the firelight against his hair, how his pale eyes hadn't blinked or looked away from hers, not once. She remembered his voice reverberating inside her head, soft and sure as a prayer.

She remembered that surety splitting, shattering, until, finally, his screams rose in harmony with hers.

Entranced, Dawn whispered back, "Yes." She was lying in the snow, but she felt warm. She felt safe. The numbness was gone. The cold didn't hurt anymore. Nothing hurt anymore. Did she die again? "I-I mean, no." She giggled, fingers pressed against her mouth. "Oh, God, I don't know. Maybe?"

"Where are you?" the eyes asked.

Dawn giggled harder. "I don't know!" She shoved her heel through the snow, digging a line in it. "Outside." She closed her eyes against the pale blue glow, but it was as bright with them closed as it was with them open. She reopened them. "Can you-- Can you find me? It's cold."

The glow seemed to swirl, contract. It was _thinking_. Finally, it poured through her, pleased and content, deliriously happy. "I can do that, yes."

 

* * *

 

He felt her before he saw her.

Like a sudden summer wind, thick and oppressive with moisture, Anita's power heralded her arrival. She was riding her lycanthropy.

Asher wondered which of her men she had been with last, which beast would be at the forefront of her mind. Leopard, wolf, or lion. It didn't matter, he supposed, he couldn't call any of them, but he hoped it wasn't the lioness. That one's natural arrogance enabled the lie of invincibility. When the leopard and wolf would eventually abandon a fight if they felt they were outmatched, the lioness fought on.

" _Mon chardonneret_?" Jean-Claude whispered.

He wasn't trying to touch him anymore. In fact, he had moved several feet away. He seemed so small standing there, hugging himself.

Asher smiled. "I'm fine," he assured. His voice was a tangible weight caressing the air. He could feel it flowing from him. It lapped at the cool edges of Jean-Claude's power like a gentle eddy of water. He had felt this before, once, long ago. It had been why Jean-Claude had felt it safe enough to leave his and Julianna's side while the Church still hunted them. Once, they had been evenly matched.

"What the _fuck_ is going on?" Anita demanded, storming through the curtained partition into the parlor. She had her gun in her hand and her wolf in her eyes. She slowed when she saw him, gun lowering. "What's happening?" she asked, still a demand, but not as loud.

"As you can see, _ma petite_ ," Jean-Claude said.

"How?" she asked, frowning. "It's got the wolves going nuts. Asher doesn't call wolves."

Jean-Claude lifted a shoulder.

Anita turned to him. "Asher, what's going on?"

Asher shook his head; he didn't have time for this. He headed for the exit. "I must go."

"Go where, _mon ami_?" Jean-Claude asked. He hadn't barred Asher's way as such, but he had stepped into his changed line of sight. Very diplomatic that move, very cautious. It made Asher pause. He wasn't used to being treated with such wariness, not by anyone who wasn't human.

"Outside," he said. Simple, reasonable.

" _Pourquoi_?"

 _Why_? he asked. Why.

The ridiculousness of it was too much.

Asher laughed, the sound as warm and bright as midday sunshine. He laughed until he cried. Anita with her little gun and Jean-Claude wrapped in his careful nothingness, and all because of him. Whether it was the power coursing through him or the knowledge that happiness was finally within reach, Asher could not help himself. In all honestly, he didn't want to. He crossed that _absurd_ , cautious distance to Jean-Claude and kissed him, utterly uncaring of Anita's prudish sensibilities. It was chaste, but firm, a greeting after too many years apart.

Pulling away, he repeated, "I must go."

Jean-Claude blinked slowly, his tongue running across his bottom lip. "You will return?" he asked.

"Of course," Asher said, smiling.

Jean-Claude nodded. "Then go, if you must."

"What?" Anita cried. "He's putting out enough power to light up the _Fox_. He can't leave."

Jean-Claude just looked at her. "I haven't heard him laugh like that in three centuries, _ma petite_. There is little I would deny him right now."

Anita's frown deepened into a scowl. "Jean-Claude, be serious. You can go stupid-faced over Asher's power-up after we figure out where the hell it came from." There was art in it, her thoughtlessness. If only her apologies were as creative.

"Enough," Asher said, no power behind the word, just impatience.

He tried for the exit again, but unlike Jean-Claude, Anita had no qualms about barring his way.

The muzzle of her gun hesitated between staying lowered and aiming at him. "No," she said, "this doesn't feel like vampire magic. It could be an attack."

Asher sighed, falling back a step, and held up his hands. " _Je suis désolé, chérie_."

Anita stared at him for a long, tense moment, then relaxed slightly. Her gun lowered. "Look, we just need to track down the source and then w--"

Asher caught her eyes and shoved his will through them into her mind. The differences between Anita and other women he had known were staggering, frustratingly so at times, but in some things, they were the same. Give an apology, feign contrition, and they thought they had won.

Anita went silent, still. Her face emptied, turning deceptively soft as she waited for him to issue a command.

It wouldn't hold longer than a minute, two at the most, but that was all the time he needed. She would see it as betrayal, he knew. She saw so many things as betrayal. Stalking past her and through the curtains, Asher was surprised at how little the thought pained him.

If she was to be angry with him, then let it finally be for something he meant to do.

Shifted and partially shifted wolves scattered at his approach. Some whined low in their throats and rolled to give him the soft of their stomaches. Others snapped and snarled, swiping at the edges of his power as though it was alive and a threat. A brave she-wolf grabbed his arm, earning herself a shattered jaw. The rats had the good sense to step aside and his fellow vampires, eminently more practical, simply watched from the shadows.

Up the stairs into the cold January night, Asher took to the sky.

 

* * *

 

He stepped out of nowhere, a brilliant golden splash against the desolate winter backdrop. Dawn should have been surprised, but she wasn't. She should have screamed, but she didn't. It seemed very natural, him appearing like that, so suddenly and without warning. It made her smile a little, oddly _fondly_ exasperated. It had the feel of an ongoing tease, like Buffy sneaking marshmallows into her cocoa; he'd done this before and he'd do it again, if only because it drove her nuts. She could tell at a glance that his abracadabra hadn't been deliberate, though. Not this time.

His eyes were pale swirls of flame. Only fire didn't burn that bright, or that steadily. Fire, real fire, was always moving, always consuming. It was both more, and less, alive than the light his eyes. It made it easier to silence the hysterical gibbering inside her head.

It wasn't real fire. It was magic, and it rolled off him in waves.

His clothes rustled and snapped, caught in a harsh nonexistent wind. His skin glowed. The snow didn't crunch under his weight. He left no tracks.

This was what a vampire was supposed to be, Dawn realized. He moved around her, closing the space between them in slow concentric circles. Comparing him to the vampires she was used to was like comparing a wolf to a panther. Both were big name predators, but only one was known for its grace.

He stopped just inches from her, not touching, but a hard thought either way would cure that. His dark blond hair fell in long, riotous curls, half artistically messy, half Veronica Lake. It brushed her cheek. He smelled expensive, warm and powdery.

Dawn wondered if this was hello-kiss territory. She wondered if she wanted it to be.

The way he was looking at her... The only thing that came even remotely close was Buffy's expression when she had decided to take her place on the tower. But Buffy had been calm, peaceful in a fatalistic sort of way. He wasn't calm. If anything, he looked torn, conflicted, so very uncertain. Dawn didn't like it.

"You're a child," he said, his voice strange, thick somehow under the lilting softness.

She liked that even less. Her eyes narrowed. "Says the undead fiend."

" _Non, je n_ \--" He exhaled sharply and his hands rose to cradle her face. They were shaking. His eyes were wet. "It was not meant as an insult, _ma moitié_."

 _His half_ , he called her. As in, the other half of his whole. She'd have called foul, declared it drippy Meg Ryan schmultz, but how he said it, he really believed it. Hard to argue when someone was looking at you, talking to you, like you were the center of his whole world.

Hard to argue when you believed it a little, too.

Dawn shut her eyes, soaking in feel of his hands, the warmth of them. It was familiar, achingly so. _He_ was familiar. She reopened her eyes, meeting his. She ignored her stomach's uneasy somersault. It wasn't real fire. It _wasn't_. If he lit a cigarette, she retained the right to flip the hell out.

"So, I know you," she said, "like Biblical _know_ you, which... is its own special bushel of physically impossible, but I can't seem to remember your name?"

He gave a weak laugh. Good to know that she wasn't the only one freaking out here.

"Asher," he said. "My name is Asher."

She nodded. "Hi, Asher. I'm Dawn." Off his look, "Would you believe me if I told you I went to sleep in my bed and woke up on a park bench?"

His thumbs stroked her cheeks. "Tonight, I would believe many things."

"Well, you obviously don't believe in coats." She tugged at the golden embroidery winding down the front of his linen shirt. "I thought all vampires worshiped the stereotype. Where's your flappy leather coat? I mean, my jammies are cute, not practical; I'm freezing my butt off here."

Asher's eyes widened and he cursed softly in French. "Forgive me. I saw, but I did not see." He quickly picked her up. His swirling eyes sharpened, the blue flame receding slightly. He took in her pale pink, _soaked_ happy cupcake pajamas, her bare feet (also pale and pink and soaked), her wet hair. What parts of his face she could see tightened in anger. "You awoke on a bench, you said?"

"Like a homeless person. Only they forgot to include the newspaper blanket, which, you know, _lame_. I demand a do-over."

His arms tightened, like his face, but she was wrong. It wasn't anger she was seeing there. It was guilt. "I should have found you sooner."

Oh, her own brooding vampire boyfriend. Just what she always wanted.

"Unless you stopped to wash your hair and change clothes, you did fine." She paused. "You _didn't_ stop to wash your hair and change clothes, did you?"

" _Non, non_ ," he said, starting to walk, "but there were... obstacles I could have dealt with differently. More expediently."

Dawn frowned. Vampires and expediency never mixed well. "Do you mean killing?" she asked. "'Cause I'm tellin' you right now, if you aren't already on the wagon, you'd better hop on. Slaughtering innocents gets you dead. Like screaming mob dead, _dead_ -dead, not just walking dead."

A blond eyebrow inched upwards. "And if they aren't innocent?"

"Sticky gray area. Depends on the circumstances."

Asher was staring at her so strangely, his expression an odd mix of amused and pained. "That is... very practical."

Okay, so it wasn't what Buffy would have said, but he didn't have to look at her like she was an alien. "Well, you don't wanna end up like Batman, do you?" Dawn asked, defensive. "Defeating the same guy over and over while his body-count hits the quadruple just 'cause you think killing's bad?"

He shook his head, a small smile on his face. "No, I don't think I would want to end up like Batman."

Yeah, he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

Dawn squirmed, feet curling against his hip. "Now, c'mon, I want blankets and a bath. Maybe soup." She peered up at him, a terrible thought suddenly occurring to her. "Do you have soup? Spike never has anything besides Ho Hos and whiskey."

"Spike?"

"My friend," Dawn said. "Best friend. Or he was. I don't know anymore." She pressed her icy nose into the collar of Asher's shirt. "So, soup?"

"I am sure I will be able to find something, _ma châtelaine_."

She was quiet a moment, then asked, hopeful, "Chicken and Stars?"

"If that's what you want."

"With crackers?"

His smile widened. "How else does one eat soup?"

"Well, I tried it with cookies once. We ran out of crackers. I don't recommended it."

"Ah."

 

* * *

 

  
**Vampire to English Dictionary** **:**  
Je suis désolé, chérie. [Fr.]; I'm sorry, darling.  
Moitié [Fr.] _mwah-tee-ay_ : half  
Châtelaine [Fr.] _shateh-lane_ : lady/mistress of the house/manor; also the wife of the lord of a castle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geography: Laclede's Landing has a park, but I gave it a better one.  
> Vampire Marks: In GP, Aubrey cracked Anita's skull like an egg. If one mark could heal that, then several can take care of hypothermia.


	3. Chapter 3

Hyenas blocked the entrance to the Circus of the Damned. Narcissus stood among their milling furred and human forms, wrapped in a black, ankle-length mink coat. Against the coat's upturned collar, his pale face appeared spectral and, lacking makeup, naked. Unstyled, his dark hair bunched against his scalp in disheveled half-curls. He had the harried, unfinished look of one who had awoke to bad news and rushed out of bed to meet it.

Narcissus rarely left his club, and when he did, it was never without a certain amount of spectacle and pageantry. In his way, he was as fond of theatrics as Jean-Claude. That he had forgone them almost completely made Asher hang back, uneasy.

"So, it is true, then," Narcissus said, his heels clicking staccato as he approached. His large gray eyes swept over Asher, lingering on the girl in his arms.

Dawn had fallen asleep midway between Second Street and First Street. Asher had been worried at first, thinking she had succumbed to the cold, but her pulse was strong, her body warm. She wasn't ill, merely exhausted. Unsurprising, given the circumstances.

Narcissus hummed his approval. "You take your time deciding to act, but when you do, you don't do it by halves, do you?" He reached to touch Dawn's face and Asher cut outward with his power. A line of blood split the back of Narcissus's hand. He didn't hiss or flinch at the pain, but his eyes did widen ever so slightly. "My, you are just full of surprises tonight." He smiled and licked his hand clean. "I like it."

"She is my human servant," Asher said, the words thick with threat. "Harm her, or allow harm to befall her, and make no mistake, Narcissus, I _will_ kill you."

Narcissus stared at him, pale eyes contemplative. "Yes," he said finally, softly. "Yes, I believe you would." He reached out again, slower this time. "Relax, sweet Asher. I only wish to know her scent. I offered to be your animal to call, if you remember. Consider my interest an act of goodwill." He rolled his eyes up to meet Asher's as he brought a lock of Dawn's hair to his nose. "After all, I cannot protect what I cannot recognize."

Asher stilled; he couldn't have heard him right. "You offer her your protection?"

"When I speak to her, I am speaking to you, isn't that how it goes?" Narcissus sent him a dark look, ripe with possibilities. "I rather enjoy speaking to you."

"Why are you here, Narcissus?" Asher asked, not unkindly, but he needed to get inside. "I didn't call you."

"You don't know?" he asked, releasing Dawn's hair. He seemed startled, but that could have been feigned. As Narcissus was fond of reminding others, he was an accomplished liar. In that, at least, he was honest. "You've caused quite the stir. Acquiring enough power to rival the Master of the City, breaking with the Executioner, putting the wolves' indomitable Geri in the hospital." Faint amusement quirked Narcissus's lips. He ran his hands down the front of his coat, petting it. "Many are under the impression that you're staging a palace coup."

"But not you," Asher said.

Narcissus peeked up through his lashes. "Not me," he agreed. "I like to think that I know you, at least a little, and you have never struck me as a particularly ambitious man, not politically." His gaze lowered to Dawn's slumbering profile. "No, I've always felt your ambitions lay... elsewhere."

Asher felt like sighing. "That does not explain--"

"Why I'm here without my face on?" Narcissus asked. The coy light in his eyes dimmed to something far more serious, far more dangerous; for when the hyena's Oba stopped playing, that was when one needed to tread most carefully. "The Master's whore is baying for your blood."

Asher didn't sigh, but he did shut his eyes for a brief, indulgent moment. "I knew she would be angry."

"Oh, no," Narcissus said. He shook his head. "No, no." He stepped closer, the chill fur of his coat brushing the fingers curled around Dawn's shoulder. "She thinks you have betrayed them, sweetling," he explained, "left them to join another master. She mentioned killing you." A high chuckling whine vibrated in Narcissus's throat. He grinned, teeth sharpening, eyes darkening with gleeful menace. "Jean-Claude struck her for that, if my source is to be believed."

"Why would I lie?" a woman asked. Her voice was soft, pitched for intimacy rather than quiet.

"For many reasons, I would imagine," Narcissus said, moving to stand at Asher's side. His hyenas followed suit, animals and men falling in behind them.

The figure swayed into the light and Asher realized his mistake. The woman wasn't a woman. Female, feminine, but not even passing human.

Melanie, the lamia, greeted them with a close, secret smile.

In the wake of the Earthmover's final death, Jean-Claude had taken up guardianship of her, offering her employment at the circus. As manager of the Circus of the Damned, dealing with her was one of Asher's many-faceted duties.

Her sleek black hair was pulled back into a high, girlish ponytail, and unlike Narcissus, she had found time to apply makeup. She was bundled in a scarlet princess cut coat that was longer than the dress it covered. Her open-toed pumps matched the coat, and all matched her lipstick. Wholly impractical for St Louis's harsh January nights, especially for someone cold-blooded, but stylish. Very stylish.

Behind her walked a man and woman that he also knew, though not as well. After the murder of their father by Chimera, Ethan and Olivia MacNair had accompanied the Kadra of their quiver, their mother, to parlay with Jean-Claude. Vampires brought in business, and with their lycanthropy revealed, anything, or anyone, that kept customers frequenting their restaurant was welcome. None of that explained why they were here now, however.

Asher understood Narcissus's interest, but what could the snakes possibly want with him?

The answer, as it turned out, was nothing. It was Dawn that held their attention, not him. He might as well not have been there.

Melanie's smile broadened with satisfaction. "You see?" she said.

Olivia hugged herself and the color drained from her brother's face, but they both nodded. It seemed that there had been an argument between them and his human servant's presence had settled it in Melanie's favor. Never a good sign.

"We will have to tell Mama," Olivia said.

Ethan sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "She won't like this."

Melanie whirled on him, retractable fangs flaring.

The boy flinched; his sister gave a tiny, muted shriek through her hand and closed her eyes. Narcissus and his men tensed, closing ranks. One of Narcissus's pale hands settled on Dawn's shin, and Asher allowed it. Where it mattered, he trusted the hyenas more than he did the lamia.

When he had first learned of Melanie's presence in the city, he had told Jean-Claude that he was insane to harbor such a creature. She was immortal, truly immortal. She literally could _not_ be killed. The power she offered was impressive, but it was also fickle. Nothing stayed her hand save her own capricious whims. She behaved herself because it suited her to do so, no other reason. It could just as easily suit her to slaughter them all in their sleep.

"If she has any sense at all," Melanie hissed at the werecobras, "she'll do as she's told. Stress _that_ when next you speak to her."

"Yes, ma'am," Ethan said, eyes too wide, head jerking up and down.

Olivia pulled him away from Melanie, curling her arm around his. "We will," she whispered. "We promise."

Melanie was silent, but it was a watchful, predatory silence, the silence of snakes. "Go," she said at last, flicking her crimson-tipped fingers at them. "Tell your mother and have word sent to Javad, but only them, do you understand? No one else."

"Yes," they answered, and slowly backed away, melting into the shadows. One should never run from anything immortal; it only attracts their attention.

Melanie turned back to Asher, fangs sliding away. Her expression was mild. "If you're planning on taking the city, I'll help you."

Narcissus hadn't been exaggerating, then. "And if I am not?" Asher asked.

"Then I'll help you in another way," she said. To prove her point, she unbelted her coat and slipped it off. "For the girl," she explained, holding it out to him.

Asher stared at it. "Why?"

Melanie's dark eyes flashed yellow. "You don't question Lamia's gifts. You accept them. Gratefully."

"I am grateful," Asher said, "but I would still like to know why."

"How human of you." Her arm moved, holding the coat out to Narcissus. When he didn't take it, she stepped closer, shoving it against his chest. "Take the coat, vermin, or I will eat you." She smiled wide, too wide. She had unhinged her jaw. "Whole."

Narcissus smiled back, leaning into her hand. "Do you promise?"

Readjusting Dawn slightly, Asher pushed past them, leaving Melanie and Narcissus to their posturing. Perhaps they would find a way to kill each other. Perhaps. That he would want to supplant Jean-Claude as Master of the City was ludicrous. That anyone would believe it, even more so. If the city ever fell into his hands, Asher's first act as her Master would be a quick and decisive culling. In particular, he foresaw the werewolf population taking a dramatic dip. Bad business and worse politics, but there would be fewer petty annoyances scrabbling for his attention.

Unlike Jean-Claude, his patience was not infinite.

"Where are you going?" Melanie called after him. She sounded upset.

"Inside," Asher said, bending so he could pull the main door open. They had waylaid him long enough.

"You would give the wolves her throat so easily?"

Asher stopped, straightened, but didn't turn. What game was she playing now? "Explain."

Melanie was suddenly at his side. She didn't try to touch him, but it wasn't about him, was it? She was gazing down at Dawn, an almost gentle look on her face. She settled her coat over her, tucking it in around the edges. Melanie raised her eyes to his; whatever softness had been there was gone.

"What do serpents and canids have in common?" she asked him. Her tone told him the question wasn't idle, or rhetorical.

Asher could only shake his head, impatient. Zoology wasn't one of his strengths.

"Dogs," Melanie simplified. "What are _dogs_ known for?"

"I assume she doesn't mean piddling on their master's shoes and licking themselves," Narcissus said, joining them near the door.

"Protecting," Asher said, understanding what Melanie meant. "Serpents are protectors."

Melanie gave a tiny nodding tilt of her head. Not precisely what she meant, then, but close enough not to argue semantics. "We're often invoked as guardians," she said, "but unlike canids, serpents are only approached when one's need is great."

That interested Narcissus. "You were called?" he asked

"Entreated," Melanie corrected. "Unlike you, I'm no one's animal. Not anymore." She lifted her chin. "Never again."

Narcissus grinned, amused. "And yet here you are."

"I was asked," she said, "and I accepted."

"And the MacNairs?" Narcissus asked. "Were they asked, too? They didn't look very accepting."

"They know their place," Melanie said.

Asher's power rolled outward like a thunderhead. He narrowed his eyes. "The wolves," he reminded her.

"Wolves aren't dogs," Melanie said, as though it explained everything. When his eyes narrowed further, she exhaled an annoyed breath. "They protect, but only their own. Ask them to protect something else, something not pack, and they..." She searched for a suitable word. "Chafe."

Narcissus snorted. "What our sweet lamia means is, the wolves weren't asked, they were told, and you know how well their Ulfric heels."

Melanie nodded. "Order something wild around and it'll eat you out of spite."

"Unless it likes you," Narcissus interjected. He pressed his cheek against Asher's shoulder.

Melanie studied him, considering. "Unless it likes you," she agreed. She flicked her eyes back to Asher. "The wolves don't like you."

Asher stared at the door. If he walked in, would the wolves really attack?

Richard's moral quandaries aside, werewolves were notoriously contrary, often for the sake of contrariness. Many vampires called them, but only a few could force them to true obedience; personally, Asher only knew of three with the power to do so. The magic that had given him Julianna back was utterly beyond his ken. That it might draw on a compulsive safeguard didn't surprise him. What better way to protect something precious?

It wasn't lost on Asher that he had been given far more than who he had originally wished for.

"I've done nothing wrong," he said. "There is no coup, no attack. Whatever power rides the wolves is not of my making."

Dawn sighed, opening her eyes. "No, it's mine," she said. Her gaze was clear, completely free of sleep.

"You were awake." Asher didn't know why, but he felt like smiling.

"Not the whole time," she said, and she _did_ smile. Hand on his shoulder, she tensed, sitting up slightly, and slipped her legs from his arm to stand. Asher steadied her and was pleasantly surprised when she handed him Melanie's coat and turned, wordlessly asking him to help her into it.

When had he last played the gallant? It seemed lifetimes ago.

Tying the belt, Dawn looked up. "Snakes and puppy dogs, huh? Any pesky hellgods I should know about?"

"Hellgods?" Narcissus echoed.

"Divine evil," Dawn said, lifting her hair so it fell outside the coat. "Usually with really nice shoes."

Melanie tipped her head. "Have you met many... hellgods?"

"Just the one," she said. Her mouth twisted into a frown. "Seriously, though, death by fire? Almost-death by snow? Not even a little like death by chocolate. So, I'd really like to know if sacrificial blood-letting is on the agenda for tonight." Plainly spoken and nonchalant, but the color she had gained from his marks had fled. Her eyes stood out in her face, very blue, very bright. She smelled of fear.

Asher could only despair at the truth he tasted in her words. "You remember," he whispered. Foolish to think she wouldn't, but he had hoped.

She gave him a tight, brittle smile. "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition."

"Well, their chief weapon is surprise, surprise and fear," Narcissus said, startling a laugh from Dawn. His voice was bland, bored almost, but his eyes when they met Asher's were thoughtful, solemn. It had been a calculated interruption, one meant to distract.

"Their _two_ weapons," Dawn corrected, grinning. She held out her hand to him. "Hi, I'm Dawn."

"Dawn. What a pretty name." He shook her hand. "You may call me Narcissus. I'm the Oba of the werehyenas."

"Were _hyenas_?" she asked, eyes round. "You're Bouda?"

Narcissus's smile widened. "You know our words."

Dawn shrugged. "I read. It's a thing." She turned her attention to Melanie and offered her hand, no hesitation, no apprehension. Asher was certain she didn't know what Melanie was; no one greeted a lamia with such insouciance. Of course, her next words proved him wrong.

"Is it _the_ Lamia, or _a_ lamia?" Dawn asked. "'Cause if it's _the_ , uh, wow." Infectious excitement flashed across her face. "I'll have to tell all my friends Lamia lent me her coat!" She paused, mood faltering. "E-except they'll have no idea what I'm talking about and think I'm totally crazy. Never mind."

Still holding out her hand, she sheepishly said, "It's a really great coat. Thanks for letting me borrow it."

On anyone else, Asher would have thought Melanie's expression was tender. She looked enchanted. "I'm glad it pleases you," she said. She took Dawn's hand, but didn't shake it, merely holding it a moment and letting go. "My name is Melanie."

"Modern," Dawn said.

Melanie smoothed the front of her dress. "I like modern things."

Dawn nodded. "Hence the Manolo Blahniks." She glanced up at Asher. "Okay, now that everybody knows everybody, what's the plan?"

He blinked at her. " _Pardon_?"

"You know, the plan? What we're gonna do?" Dawn pushed her hair back. "I want a bath, soup, and a bed. Obviously, this--" She jerked her chin toward the circus's door. "--is the place to do that. Only there are wolves that wanna eat me blocking the way. So, how are we gonna deal?"

The conviction shining in her eyes was humbling, and terrifying. Asher didn't know what to do with it. He had the distinct feeling of being drawn onto a battlefield, a battlefield where he was expected to lead, and lead well.

Julianna had been certain of him, but never like this. He had failed her too often for her to trust his judgment so completely. She would do as he asked, she was his servant, but she had more confidence in Jean-Claude's mad schemes than anything he devised.

"What would you have me do, _ma moitié_?" Asher asked, soft.

"Uh uh." Dawn poked his chest. "You're scary vampire guy. I'm scream-until-I-find-something-throwable girl. Sometimes, I trade throwable for choppable if there's an axe on hand, but mostly? I scream." She crossed her arms, a stubborn tilt to her chin. "You're plan man."

"You presume to speak for all of us?" Narcissus asked. His men drifted in from the shadows. There were more of them than before.

Dawn rolled her eyes at the implied threat. "Oh, please, like you weren't totally scent-marking him ten minutes ago. You _want_ Asher to boss you. And, anyway, Melanie said she'd help." She looked over at the lamia, suddenly unsure. "You still wanna help, right?"

Melanie nodded.

Dawn beamed, attention back on Asher. "Well, there you go. Avengers assembled." She raised her eyebrows expectantly. "What's the plan?"

 

* * *

 

In Scooby-speak, _what's the plan?_ pretty much translated to _how are we not gonna die?_ It must have meant something else to non-Scoobies, because it took them another twenty minutes to agree on anything, and that was only after Dawn slipped inside when they weren't looking.

Not the smartest thing ever, but it got them to shut up and _do_ something.

Like saving her. Always a good time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dawn: This is set after Season 6's _Older and Far Away_ , so Dawn is **fifteen**.  
>  Narcissus: He is described as having large dark eyes that go pale when they've bled to his beast. Hyena eyes are dark brown/black. So, I switched the descriptions around. Normal eyes, pale. Beast eyes, dark. Chalk it up to Anita's unreliable narration.


	4. Chapter 4

Dawn didn't know what she had expected from the Circus of the Damned, but walking down its darkened midway, she felt snookered.

Everything looked so... contrived, and not in an artful charming way. It wasn't fake, exactly, but it definitely made her think of what a morally ambiguous, undead Disneyland might be like. The Scariest Place on Earth! Only with a distinct lack of scary and a double helping of dated suck. The green, warty nosed witch over the haunted house would have sent Willow spiraling straight into rant mode.

Like on the building front outside, large cloth posters of B-movie caricatures hung here and there. _See The Skinless Man_ , one proclaimed. _Watch Zombies Rise From The Grave_ , said another. The one that made Dawn pause, though, was: _See The Lamia: Half-snake, Half-woman_.

Why Melanie would willingly work as a sideshow attraction, Dawn didn't know. It didn't make sense. Melanie seemed like a very proud lady... monster. Lady monster. She seemed very proud and very, very scary. When she talked, people listened. She could even pass for human, if she wanted.

If she wanted. Maybe she didn't. Maybe she liked the shock and awe.

Dawn sighed, shoving her hands into the wonderfully warm, silk-lined pockets of Melanie's coat. The wind had picked up outside, the snow had started to fall again, and still they hashed and rehashed. If she left it up to Asher and his friends, it would probably be another hour before they came up with a plan that everybody liked. Narcissus was queen of the werehyenas and expected her opinion to matter, and Melanie was... Melanie, so her opinion _did_ matter in an "or else" kind of way. Why they couldn't pick up a phone, call this Jean-Claude guy, and explain everything at a safe distance, Dawn didn't know.

Everyone had looked at her like she was crazy when she'd asked, even Asher, which stung. Just because she was talking sense and they were all _insane_ didn't mean her idea was bad.

She fully admitted that she didn't understand half of their worries, the political intrigues flew right over her head, but she was tired and she was cold. Her want of hot food and an equally hot bath had dwindled down to a cranky, decidedly unhelpful want of sleep.

That they had fallen into the time-honored Scooby tradition of talking about her like _she wasn't there_... Well, that just made her crankier and Dawn did predictably _not_ bright, cliché things when she was cranky, like running away from home during a crisis and stealing. Sometimes, she wondered if the monks hadn't taken a few parenting self-help books and used them as a baseline when they had thrown together her subconscious.

How To Raise Your Troubled Teen, anyone? It would explain a lot.

So in she snuck. Stupid and more than a little manipulative, but she knew what she was doing.

All right, she _sort of_ knew what she was doing.

Dawn was a pro at getting into trouble. She had been, anyway. She was beginning to wonder. Five minutes in, and nothing, nada. She'd yet to see a single slavering wolf. It was almost as disappointing as the circus. What did a girl have to do to land herself in mortal peril around here?

Her plan had been simple: sneak in, find trouble, and scream for help. Not very complex or hard-thinking, but it had a history of working well. If it ain't broke, et cetera, et cetera. Except trouble was being a lazy, procrastinating loser, and not doing his fair share.

Trouble had to be a boy. Girls were more considerate.

"Damn, you _do_ glow, don't you, kid?"

Dawn yelped and spun around, nearly tripping over her feet.

A short, thin man dressed in a three piece suit of solid canary yellow was leaning against a red and gold, carnival-style popcorn cart. His black hair was slicked back, leaving his pale, angular face clean and open. He had an unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth and his dark eyes seemed to dance in the dimmed half-light of the circus. He didn't look threatening, not really. If anything, he looked like a badly dressed extra from a Frank Sinatra movie.

Dawn didn't know why, but she took a step back toward the entrance.

"I'd catch you before ya touched the door, you know," the man said, smiling around his cigarette.

Dawn stilled. "Wh-who are you?" she asked.

"Name's Willie McCoy." The man's smile broadened into a bright, fangy grin. "And _you're_ breakin' protocol."

Confused, she frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"You're supposed to make an appointment," he explained. "Surprises make the boss... twitchy."

Okay, that was so not her fault. "Hey," she said, a hand settling on her hip, "I _wanted_ to call like a normal person, but Asher said--"

" _Asher_?" Willie was at her side between blinks. "Shit, kid, you hafta get outta here!" He grabbed her wrist, dragging her back the way she'd came.

Dawn dug in her heels, twisting in the other direction. "What? No! I have to--"

A wolf's howl sliced the air, cutting her off. Another joined it. Another and another and another.

She watched them pour out from the depths of the circus, a snarling, writhing mass of fur and teeth. Dawn's mind blanked; her plan, whatever it had been, vanished. She stopped struggling against Willie's pull. The wolves shoved, climbing over each other, clawing _through_ each other.

No, not wolves, _werewolves_. It made a difference. Why hadn't anyone said they were werewolves?

Blood burst across the sawdust covered concrete in a dark, crimson flood. If not for the thick, meaty splashes of viscera (which was just a pretty, grownup word for _guts_ ), she thought it might have sounded a lot like someone let a bathtub overflow.

Yeah, splashy viscera really ruined the whole overflowing bathtub simile.

Dawn yanked herself free from Willie and bolted toward the door. Only belatedly did she remember that wolves were doggish and dogs _liked_ chasing things.

They stilled, amber eyes following her, no noise but their huffing pants and the _tap-tap-tap_ of blood dripping off fur.

Then, like someone somewhere hit a switch, they _moved_.

 

* * *

 

A scream rent the air. It was a solid, piercing note straight out of Asher's nightmares.

The steel door to the Circus of the Damned buckled and flew inward. The sound of it skidding and sparking across the cement barely registered. Asher was too far ahead, his newfound power rushing out in a desperate flurry, reaching, searching. He couldn't lose her, not again. Like a touch, like the dearly missed warmth of slender human fingers lacing with his, he threw open the connection between Dawn and himself, and it wasn't a master's pretty pretense: she _was_ his voice.

More importantly, she was his eyes; only Asher didn't understand what he was seeing.

A narrow back, close enough to touch, moving under garish, unflattering fabric. Beyond that, a roiling surge of primordial terror built of blood and promising death.

Then something separated from the surge. It darted forward to the front. It _leapt_.

A wolf, he realized finally, and Dawn's scream rose with its arc.

Sending up a thick cloud of sawdust, Asher twisted into place, hands snapping out to catch the leaping wolf by the throat. He spun with it, momentum sending the animal flying back into its brethren. Glancing over through disheveled hair, Asher was surprised to see that Willie had Dawn hemmed in behind a toppled popcorn cart, his arms protectively spread. The right sleeve to his suit jacket was shredded; the bright yellow fabric hung off him in bloody tatters.

Young as he was, it was easy to dismiss Willie McCoy as inconsequential, but as he turned narrow eyes filled with brown flame toward him, Asher was forcibly reminded that while Willie's bloodline wasn't one of beauty or seduction, it was one of power.

Willie swiped a crimson smear off his cheek with a careless roll of his shoulder and smiled grimly. There was an open switchblade in his hand. "She's okay, boss."

It was a night of unexpected allies, it seemed.

Flanked by his men, Narcissus blurred past Asher and tore into the oncoming torrent of crazed wolves, his coat flying around him in a fluttering black swirl.

And a night for adjusting one's views on the sincerity of existing allies.

"Head's up, Goldilocks!"

On reflex, Asher caught the Beretta M9 sailing toward his head. Bottom-heavy, he noted, and a quick survey of the extended magazine told him why: twenty thickly plated silver bullets. His gaze flicked to the slender _mestis_ woman who had thrown it. Tall with gently defined muscle and a head of tight black curls that swayed like dandelion petals when she moved, she didn't have the militaristic look of the Rodere that the gun suggested.

She bared her teeth in a feral grin. "Safety's off. Try not to shoot yourself." Then she took off, her black curls and chestnut skin gone in an explosion of spotted fur.

Shocked, Asher stared after her even as he took aim at the wolves. Sighting down his arm, he wondered when Narcissus began allowing women into his cackle.

Werewolves fell, his shots quick and meant to immobilize. Jean-Claude would make him pay for this later, likely in some terribly creative way, but Dawn was his and he would let none touch her. Stopping by the popcorn cart, Asher reached through their connection to check her for injuries. "You're unharmed?"

She had the unmitigated gall to roll her eyes at him. "I'm _fine_ , Ash--" Those selfsame eyes flared wide. Her arm jerked up to point past him. "Look out!"

Secondhand fear poured through him and Asher only had time enough to bring his arms up as he was struck and forced to the ground, his gun gone.

Dawn screamed again and the sound twisted in him like a knife. " _Asher_!"

"I have him!" Melanie shouted and jerked the weight of the wolf away. With a flick of a delicate wrist, bone crunched and the wolf went limp in her hands. She carelessly dropped it onto the floor beside her. Its pained, labored breathing showed she hadn't killed it, however, only paralyzed it.

Asher's confusion must have shown because after pulling him to his feet, she said, "If you aren't taking the circus, then we shouldn't kill many of them."

Willie looked up from where he was bending the torn door to the circus into a proper barricade. "Did anyone tell hyenas that?"

The hyenas harried the wolves. In and out, the larger spotted hyenas attacked, lunging and snapping, crushing bone between their massive jaws while the smaller striped and brown hyenas flitted around them, using their speed and lightness of foot to inflict damage before retreating. The few mercenary souls who remained in human form seemed content to rely on a frighteningly productive combination of brute strength, silver-plated blades, and silenced handguns.

Many thought hyenas craven. Many thought them a small threat despite their vast number. Many were unconscionably stupid.

Asher could only watch in growing panic as the circus's footpaths were turned into a killing field. When he chanced a look at her, Dawn's expression mirrored his.

But her panic quickly faded to, of all the maddening things, _annoyance_. "Asher, quit standing around and _do_ something!"

Annoyance with him.

"What would you _have_ me do?" he yelled at her, repeating what he had asked before outside with more frustration and even less idea of what to do. Belated horror silenced him from saying more; she had only just been returned to him and he was already losing his temper.

Dawn didn't seem to notice. She jabbed a finger at him, eyes wide. "They're slaughtering each other! You need to stop them!"

"Kid's got a point, boss," Willie piped in. At Asher's quelling look, he raised his hands, palms up. "No offense."

Asher looked around at the blood-drenched havoc surrounding him, at the growing amount of dead. This wasn't anything like his duties as Jean-Claude's _témoin_. One shining moment of practical ruthlessness with the Chicago lions -- which had, lest it be forgot, _surprised everyone_ \-- did not make him a general.

"Boss?" Willie asked, tentative

Jerked from his frenetic, twisting thoughts, Asher shot him a blistering glare. "Stop calling me that!"

He _wasn't_ taking the city. He didn't _want_ it. He _never_ had. Why did everyone assume he did?

"Oh my God."

Dawn ducked under Willie's arm, unmindful of the danger, and ran up to him. Grabbing the front of Asher's shirt, she tugged him down to her level and _slapped_ him.

Asher could only stare at her, stunned and bereft, touching his stinging cheek.

"I know, I'm sorry, but if you could breathe, you'd be hyperventilating. You're gibbering in my head." Her nose wrinkled. "In French."

She smoothed his hair, then, fingertips now gently, obliviously brushing over his scars, and again, she didn't seem to notice his ugliness. "I'm sorry, this's my fault." And when he opened his mouth to deny it: "It is. Shut up. Let me have my mature moment." He watched her expression turn fretful, fear taking shape under the pointed scold of her annoyance. "I know it's hard having it be all about you. I know it's a big, scary deal and you're having a huge, vampire-sized freakout about it, but I--" Her expression hardened. "I've already been burned alive, all right? I'm _not_ being eaten. Save me so I can go to bed. I'm tired."

Asher wanted to laugh, but he was certain it would be spiteful. She made it sound so uncomplicated, as though saving her was a simple matter of course and failing her that night so long ago didn't fill his every regret. As though he didn't _try_ to save her every night in his thoughts since then with unchanging results.

"I can't do it," she went on. "If I could, I would. But I can't. You're--" Her eyes lit up and she grabbed his arm, squeezing it. "You're my right arm, okay? That's what this funny mind-meld is, right? We're connected?" When he nodded, she smiled brilliantly and, all at once, his worries fell away. There was danger in that, a stupidity he dimly recalled from younger, less fraught days, but Asher couldn't find it in himself to care; she was alive and well and she was smiling at him.

She squeezed his arm again, her smile unwavering. "So go _be_ my arm, Asher."

Even at her weakest, Julianna had always been the strongest of them. It seemed little had changed in that regard.

Wetting his lips, Asher pulled in an unneeded breath, and whispered, "I shall need your strength." He could do this. If she needed him, if she _believed_ in him, he could.

He could save her.

 

* * *

 

_What strength?_ Dawn wanted to ask, but it didn't seem the place for it. If Asher needed her strength, whatever that meant, then he could have it.

God knew, she didn't have anymore bright ideas. She didn't even have anymore bad ones.

So, she nodded quickly. "Okay."

She wasn't expecting that quiet hum in the back of her mind, like the tinny whine of a weak radio signal, to explode into a deafening roar. Willie caught her as she stumbled, nearly falling with her as the roar tried to force her to her knees, and through it all she watched Asher _change_ , and she didn't understand.

That was _her_ expression on his pale, half-covered face. That bratty, stubborn expression. The set of his shoulders was all her, too, the way they tensed and vibrated.

Asher looked like her when she was about to start throwing things or scream the roof down. Instead, he blurred into the thick of things, a gold and white streak of movement, invisible power radiating off him like a heat shimmer. He caught Narcissus by the back of her neck, pulling her around so flame-blue eyes could bore into hers, making her go still and placid-faced in his grip. Was this what Narcissus meant when she said she'd offered to be Asher's animal servant? Whatever it meant, soon they were fighting in sync, not killing anymore, but wounding, crippling, keeping the werewolves at bay with clean, violent efficiency.

Dawn didn't know what to make of it. Not even _Glory_ had moved that fast.

A strong, bloodied hand took her elbow and helped Willie steady her. It was Melanie. Her red dress was black and dripping. Her eyes were yellow. "You're doing well."

"I'm not doing anything," Dawn denied, squinting at her through the din in her head. She was going to need an aspirin when this was over.

Melanie flicked blood-dirty nails at Asher's back. Her lips curled in amusement. "Your right arm is."

Dawn shifted uncomfortably. "It was a pep-talk."

Melanie's smile widened. "Perhaps, but he thinks you meant it and it's your power he's wielding. That's all that matters."

That didn't make sense. Finding her feet, Dawn pulled her elbow free. "My power?"

"Ain't it obvious?" Willie cut in, watching Asher send another werewolf flying with open appreciation. "It's you they want, but it's _him_ they're attackin'."

That _still_ didn't make sense. The only power she had was... Dawn sighed, hating her life. She'd been right before: snakes and puppy dogs. It seemed everything was coming back to the Key tonight. Take away the weirdly specific necromantic aspect of her _Where's Waldo?_ existence and you were left grabbing the attention of _everything_ that had serpent or canine construction. Lamia, weresnakes, _werewolves_. So much for not opening anything anymore.

It might not be so bad, really, if it weren't for the werewolves, but they just _kept_ coming. If not from inside the circus, then from the outside through the now gaping entrance. The hyenas weren't killing them anymore, but that only meant they could heal and _get back up_ , like an unfun, non-shambling army of darkness.

"How many of them are there?" Dawn demanded, bracketed in by Willie and Melanie on both sides. Why wouldn't anyone give her a sword?

"St Louis's got one of the biggest wolf packs nation-wide," Willie said. "So a lot."

"Hundreds," Melanie agreed, grunting as she grabbed a wolf before it could lunge past them and reach Dawn. She snapped its spine and threw it aside.

"We need to stop them," Dawn said. She felt stupid and useless standing there, stating the obvious, arms wrapped around herself. She was used to causing trouble and she was used to being blamed even when it wasn't her fault, but this was a mess, beyond a mess, and it wasn't even _right_.

Werewolves didn't travel in packs. They rarely traveled in pairs. Hello, Oz and Veruca. Bouda were a small group of hereditary magic-users from Africa, not your run of the mill, slash-happy therianthropes. Vampires didn't freaking _fly_ and have non-metaphorical fire shining in their eyes.

She'd done research with the gang while Buffy was dead, she had a good grasp on the world's more demony denizens, and everything here was wrong.

She knew it was real, but she also knew it was _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

"Stopping 'em would be great," Willie said, looking over. "How ya figure we should do it?"

It was the "we" that bolstered her. He wanted to help, too. Yeah, he'd been protecting her, but _everyone_ did that. Even soulless monsters and waffling, two-faced hellgod counterparts. It wasn't really a character reference. Actually helping, fighting when it mattered, that was different.

"Back home, they use tranquilizer darts," she told them, "but there's usually only one or two werewolves. It's not _like_ this."

"You wish to make them docile," Melanie clarified. "Make them sleep." The way she said it made Dawn wonder if a non-violent solution had ever occurred to her.

"Yeah." She shrugged. "I mean, even if it doesn't fix it, it'll buy us some time."

Willie peeled off his jacket and draped it over the wheel of the popcorn cart. "Jean-Claude's got a lotta witches and big-time magicians on payroll. One of 'em could whip of a Sleeping Beauty curse easy." He darted Melanie a glance, not quite meeting her yellow eyes. "Where are your fellas?"

Melanie's shoulders twitched irritably at the question like shaking off a fly, but when she answered, her tone was mild. "Gathering the others."

"The others?" Dawn asked.

Melanie's brief glance was chiding. "If you hadn't taken things into your own hands, you would have heard our plan."

Uh huh, she was completely not sorry for that. "I was cold and tired and you were bickering."

Melanie hummed. "And now you're cold and tired and we're covered in blood."

Okay, maybe she was a little sorry.

"It's not like I _expected_ Narcissus to go all Friday Night Creature Feature at the first opportunity."

"No offense, kid--"

Dawn glared. " _Not_ a kid." God, he sounded like Riley.

"Ma'am," Willie switched smoothly. "No offense, but maybe you should've. We're monsters; even when we're tryin' to help, people get hurt." He seemed sad about it.

Melanie agreed, but she didn't seem sad at all. "Bloodless wars aren't my specialty."

Incredulous, Dawn stared at her. "But this isn't bloodless." She frowned. "And it isn't a war."

"Then _what_ would you call it?"

Dawn started at the new, irritated voice behind them and jerked around, but before she could see who it belonged to, Melanie shoved her back against the popcorn cart and stepped in front of her. As she did, Willie skittered away like he'd been caught doing something he really, really shouldn't have.

It seemed someone important had finally shown up.

Oh, thank God. Dawn was getting tired of being in charge and Asher was so spectacularly bad at it.

Speaking of Asher, the vampire who had spoken could have passed for his slightly shorter monochromatic twin. An elegant confusion of long India-ink curls twisted like delicate doll's hair around the fine angles of his face, but instead of using it to hide behind, like Asher, he kept it swept to the sides and away. It left his pale features open to scrutiny. It made sure she couldn't mistake the shock filling his dark blue eyes or the pang of familiarity that slithered in where Asher had made himself a home.

Yeah, she was getting tired of knowing people she had never met before, too. Really, that could stop at anytime. She wouldn't mind.

"Julianna?" The name was a whisper, but there was some kind of power behind it; she could feel it ghost over her cheek like faintly shaking fingertips.

"Kind of?" she offered, shaking off the feeling and forcing herself to look away, to find where Asher was fighting back to back with Narcissus. "But we can catch up later, all right? After we're not dead." Her face scrunched. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm really sick of dying."

"Dying once was enough for me," Willie agreed, but it was a cautious agreement, testing the waters. He darted the dark-haired vampire a glance.

Asher's through-a-glass-darkly finally blinked and nodded. " _Oui_ , dying once is enough for anyone." He looked them over. "You are not taking the city?"

"I offered," Melanie said blandly, "but he doesn't want it."

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. Sure, owning a city _sounds_ good, but what would you _do_ with it?"

Mirror, Mirror Guy quirked his lips. "Many things."

 

* * *

 

Asher understood now.

There was a woman standing at the center of Dawn's strength, small and blonde and so distressing in her mortality that it hurt, but she was, above all things, brave. So very brave, this woman with gray in her hair and an indomitable will shinning in her brown eyes. And like Julianna, like Dawn, it was a purely human bravery.

If she could accomplish more with _none_ of his strength, then of course Dawn would expect much of him. As she should.

Her mother: _she_ was the source of Dawn's strength and now she was the source of his.

Tearing the the foreleg from a wolf whose markings he vaguely recognized, Asher ached to feel the hilt of a rapier in his hand, a sword, something bladed with heft. That wasn't his ache, nothing born of him, but he felt it all the same, and he found himself agreeing with it where he wouldn't have before. There were worrisome new depths to his human servant, ones she hadn't possessed when he had known her, and he could only guess at where a girl her age had acquired them.

She was accustomed to violence. She was accustomed to those around her reacting to it with equal violence. There were the dead and dying surrounding her on all sides and she barely spared them a glance beyond grim resignation; these were not the first bodies she had seen.

He feared they would not be the last.

Narcissus was a comforting presence at Asher's side, complimenting his every action like an extension of his will.

"You rolled me." Narcissus's voice was free of inflection, of anger. It would not remain that way.

"Not deeply," he said. "Not permanently." As though it made a difference.

"You will make recompense."

Simple, factual, and the threat it carried wasn't idle.

Narcissus had always been ruthless, but Chimera's attack last year had taught him the value of quick, decisive action. No longer would he await rescue. No longer would those who sought to harm his people catch him unaware. He had examined the flaws in himself and he had, unlike so many who experienced similar, moved to rectify them. That he had started allowing women into his cackle only underscored that. Narcissus was no longer afraid of being challenged.

No, Narcissus wasn't afraid, but everyone had reason to be.

Asher, despite his new power, was afraid. Not for himself, but for Dawn. Narcissus had offered her his protection. He could just as easily rescind it.

"You wish to be my animal," Asher said.

"I do," Narcissus agreed, turning to face him. His voice was still mild, still empty and awaiting command.

Asher touched him, shoving his power through until it rooted deeply within Narcissus's psyche, creating a tether between them. "Then you are."

All at once, the thrall over Narcissus vanished, replaced by something far more powerful. Emotion, opinion, personality, his pale face flooded with it. He stared at Asher a moment, then he laughed. Narcissus laughed and laughed until it rose in a cackling inhuman noise. His teeth bared in a sharp smile. "Yes, Master."

 

* * *

 

**Vampire to English Dictionary** **:**  
Mestis [Fr.] _mes-tee_ : Middle French ancestor of the modern _métis_ , a general French term for one of mixed heritage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anita: She will be portrayed, initially, as unlikable and unreasonable because, as of _The Harlequin_ , she is unlikable and unreasonable. Many consider her a villain in denial. That said, before this fic is finished, I hope to have her back to being the Anita I originally fell in love with. I miss her.


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